


Skin and Bones

by fictionfun2219



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: F/M, FAHC, Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-07-28 10:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20062714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fictionfun2219/pseuds/fictionfun2219
Summary: You are Tex, the most famous weapons dealer in Los Santos. The Fake AH Crew hires you to complete a complicated job, but a rival crew has other ideas. Can you and the rest of the Fakes beat them to the punch?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first-ever fic! I have a few chapters written, and I'll be posting them once a week until it's done or I run out of chapters. I'll do my best to update this regularly. In the meantime, enjoy a story I've had in my head for a while and finally decided to write down. Don't hesitate to comment, I'd love the feedback on anything from the story itself to how to navigate this site as a content creator. Thanks!

You smile to yourself as you ride the elevator up to the fifth floor. This is a meeting you have been anticipating ever since the Fakes made it big in Los Santos. It was inevitable, really, that the biggest and most destructive crew in the city would call upon the weapons dealer who can find anything. Shifting the large duffel bag on your shoulder to a more comfortable position, you step out of the elevator into the long hall of their office building.  
“Glass double doors on my right… Here!” You push through the doors into a sleek, modern conference room. In the middle of the room is a long glass table surrounded by standard black leather office chairs. There is nothing on the walls other than floor-to-ceiling windows across from the door. It seems so normal for the insane criminal image they portray.  
You quickly get to work setting up your standard first-meeting merchandise on the table, along with a few extras a crew of this caliber may appreciate. Three men and one woman enter the room as you are laying out the last pistol. The woman has short red hair and is wearing a loudly colored Hawaiian shirt. She walks into the room and seats herself in one of the chairs around the conference table, flashing you a welcoming smile. The first man has a large handlebar moustache and tattoos covering his hands, with evidence of more barely visible beneath the cuffs of his suit. He takes the seat at the head of the table next to the woman. The second man’s mischievous face is framed by a mess of wild brown curls, his built frame hidden beneath a beaten leather jacket. He acknowledges you with a slight nod and leans against one of the windows.  
The third man and final member of your meeting is the one you’ve heard the most about. The man all of your associates warned you to never, ever cross: the masked sociopathic killer Vagabond. He sizes you up as he leans against the wall just behind his boss. Of course Ramsey would bring him as part of his muscle team. His black skull mask and icy blue eyes would intimidate the hell out of any average criminal. Lucky for everyone involved you were nowhere near average.  
“So, Tex. I’m glad we finally get to work with you. I’ve heard good things.” Geoff leans back in his chair as he speaks. “These are my associates: Jack, Michael, and the Vagabond.” Jack and Michael give you a wave as they are introduced while the Vagabond continues to stare coldly in your direction.  
“Nice to meet you guys. I’m glad we finally get to work together, and I’m sure we can wreak some beautiful havoc,” you say with a grin.  
“That’s the hope.” Geoff smirks. “Whenever you’re ready, walk us through your collection here.”  
With a nod you pick up a throwing knife with a menacing serrated edge. “We’ll start off with a personal favorite of mine. These babies will wreck your shit.” With a turn you expertly fling the knife into a torso-shaped stuffed target on the other side of the room. It sticks with a thud into the heart of the dummy, rocking it gently back and forth from the force of your throw. “Not only do they look intimidating, they are incredibly effective,” you say as you pull the knife out of the dummy, stuffing catching on the edges and falling in a trail that would devastate any real person. “You would like these, Skulltula, given the whole ‘scary motherfucker’ vibe you’re going for.”  
Michael snorts a laugh into his hand at your comment. Vagabond shoots him a glare and he puts up his hands in defense. “Hey, I have to respect sweet Zelda references. It’s mandatory.”  
The next thirty minutes are filled with your explanations of some of the more deadly and cool-looking weapons in the small demonstration arsenal you brought, including both the largest and smallest pistols in your collection and an array of throwing knives. You end your sales pitch and turn to the people at the front of the room, waiting for someone to speak.  
“There are some good pieces here,” Geoff gestures to the table, “but we’re looking for something a little more unusual.”  
“Tell me what you need and I’ll find it. For the right price, of course.” You lean forward and rest your hands on the edge of the table.  
Geoff reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell phone as he speaks. “It’s not your traditional weapon, and I’m not great with the technical stuff so I’ll let another member of our crew explain it.” He hits a button to put the phone on speaker and sets it on the table. “When you’re ready.”  
In a moment a British voice trills through the room. “Alright, here’s the deal. We need some heavy duty computer shite and we need it in two weeks.” He goes on to explain the detailed specs of a military-grade program held on a chip. “It’s been running all over the bloody world, but rumor is the chip has made its way to Los Santos.”  
“Thanks man, I’ll get back with you later.” Geoff begins to reach for his phone when the British man pipes up again.  
“Oi, can you tell Ryan to stop leaving his mask in the smegging living room? I nearly had a bloody heart attack the last-“ He’s cut off by Geoff’s rage-fueled yelling as he takes him off of speaker before he can blow anyone else’s cover.  
“You should have known you were still on fucking speaker!” Geoff shrieks into the phone as the British man splutters and squawks on the other end. You glance at the Vagabond as the severity of what you now know sets in. No one has seen his face. He is a ghost without an identity. And now you know that ghost’s name is Ryan.  
I’m fucking dead. Quickly you assess your escape options as you inch your hand closer to the serrated dagger on the table. Jack is now standing and coming towards you, but her attention is on the masked figure slowly moving in your direction.  
“Ryan, stop. We don’t know that she’ll say anything. And if this job goes well we’ll want to continue working with her. Your name was bound to have come out eventually. Blame Golden Boy, you can punch him later!” Now she is by your side, shooting you a glance that says ‘don’t do anything stupid’.  
Straightening your back, you let your empty hands fall to your side. Ryan is directly in front of you now. You stare into his eyes that betray no emotion, and neither do yours as you search for something, anything to say that may save your life. “We all have secrets, shit we don’t want out in the open with the lives that we lead. You have my word: I won’t expose you.”  
He regards you carefully before slowly walking away to return to his place on the wall. You release the breath you had been holding at what appears to be his cautious acceptance. “Besides,” you drop your duffel bag on the table and begin to pack your things to leave, “I thought of about a dozen skull-related nicknames I’d rather call you when you walked into the room.” You can almost feel the scowl his face twists into and you shoot him a playful smirk.  
“Well, now that we’ve sorted out that fiasco, we should discuss your payment.” Geoff folds his hands on the table in front of him. “We’re willing to pay $2 million.”  
“Come on Geoff, I’m a weapons dealer not a charity. You know a job like this is worth 5, easy.” The two of you engage in an intense stare-down before Geoff finally speaks.  
“3 mil, no higher.”  
“Fine. One condition: if I need backup or extra muscle, you send a couple of people my way. No questions, no bullshit.” You cross your arms and set your jaw; these are your conditions for any job of this magnitude, and you won’t compromise.  
“I’m not going to lie, having some of my people around during this process only benefits me. You have my number, get ahold of me if you need something and I’ll send them over.”  
“Nice doing business with you, Ramsey. Have your British loudmouth send me the details of this chip and whatever else you guys have on its whereabouts.”  
“He’s on it. We’ll be in touch soon with the details.” With that he stands and exits the room with the others close behind. The Vagabond is the last to leave, his eyes on you until he reaches the door.  
“See you later, Skeletor!” You call to his back. His shoulders visibly tense beneath his jacket as he follows his crew into the hallway. After waiting a few moments, you finish packing up your merchandise and exit the building. You walk to your gunmetal gray SUV a few blocks down and press the remote start on your keychain. The engine roars to life and you let out the same little sigh of relief every time your car doesn’t explode with the press of a button. Despite trying your best to be a reliable and trustworthy weapons dealer, some crews just can’t help wanting to wrap up loose ends or feel the need to blame whoever sold them the tools they used on their failed jobs. That, and occasionally you have to take matters into your own hands if someone decides to screw you over. No one can climb the criminal ranks in Los Santos like you have without making some enemies and racking up a body count.  
Your phone starts to ring after you throw your bag in the trunk and climb in the driver’s seat. A smile crosses your face at the familiar number flashing on the screen. “Hey mom, what’s up?”  
“Y/N! Are you still coming over for dinner tonight?” Your mother’s joyful sing-song voice comes through the phone’s speaker as you pull away from the curb and onto the street. “I’m making lasagna!”  
“Yeah mom, I just have to finish up some business. I’ll be there by six.”  
“You work far too hard, Y/N. Business must be booming! I’m so proud of you sweetie.” your mother exclaims as dishes clatter in the background.  
“The hotels have really taken off. I have to work hard if I’m going to keep up with everything. Speaking of, I should get back to work. I’ll see you at dinner tonight, love you!” As you hang up you feel guilt twist your stomach. Lying to your mother has never been easy, especially when she’s so supportive of what she thinks you’re doing. Buying a small motel, named Los Santos Sunshine, under the table with the money from your first big job eight years ago was an easy way to launder the gun-running profits and it was the perfect place to discreetly store both associates and product. Once you started doing jobs in the six-figure range it was time to expand. That meant a larger hotel, named Serenity, in a better part of town. Even without the extra cash from your day job, the hotels are doing very well.  
Once, after a particularly bad job, you considered retiring from the criminal business and becoming a hotel mogul full-time. This life has a way of pulling people back in, though. A few weeks after you dropped off the radar and tried to focus solely on your buildings someone found you and offered you a ridiculous sum of money for a few simple modified grenade launchers. It was just too good to pass up.  
Soon you are pulling into your designated parking spot in one of the last rooms of your motel on the outskirts of Los Santos. This is where you keep most of your merchandise. The cleaning and management staff have strict orders to leave the room alone. They of course don’t know any of what is going on. You pay them well, though, so they turn a blind eye and keep cops away from the area.  
After dropping off your duffel bag of fun from the Fake’s meeting you walk back out to your car. As you reach into your purse to grab the keys you notice a sleek black car just barely visible at the end of the street. Casually you climb into the car and take a long route to your favorite bakery to pick up some cannoli’s for mom’s Italian-themed dinner. Coming out of the bakery you sweep the area. The black car is nowhere in sight. Confident you lost the possible tail, you make your way to your mother’s, taking another long and confusing route just in case.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While gathering information for the FAHC job and going about your normal Wednesday routine you are forced to confront an unwanted shadow.

You’re seated in an overstuffed cream-colored chair surrounded by enough gold décor to make an interior designer change careers. A man covered in a small fortune’s worth of jewelry strides towards you with a wide grin plastered on his face. You stand and attempt to match his enthusiasm as he greets you.  
“Tex, baby! How the hell are you? It’s been far too long.” He folds you into a hug before motioning for you to return to the plush furniture.  
“It’s good to see you, Sean.” Sean Turner is one of the few ridiculously wealthy men in Los Santos that you can actually stand. He flaunts it like no other, but he’s willing to help his friends and always has the best scotch on hand. The two of you have been working together for years. You bought Serenity from Sean after he decided that it was too much work for his taste, with the condition that you would always have a few rooms available for whatever he pleased. You were happy to oblige, especially because he seems to know everything about everyone in Los Santos and will share with the people he likes.  
“I’d love to pretend you’re here simply because you love gazing at my beautiful face, but my brain is even bigger than my wallet.” Sean sits in a similarly stuffed chair opposite you and lays his ornately decorated hands in his lap. “What do you need, Y/N?”  
“A lead on this weaponized computer software.” You slip him a piece of paper with some of the information Golden Boy sent you.  
“Computer software, huh? This isn’t in your normal repertoire. Who is this for?” Sean raises an eyebrow at you as he skims through the information.  
“A client. Can you ask your friends about it for me? I need to know who has it, where it is, and what it does.”  
“You don’t even know what it does? This must be a big-ticket job for you to be so careless about it. You sure you know what you’re getting yourself into?” Sean’s eyes fill with concern. Apparently, money doesn’t always take a person’s entire sense of humanity.  
“Biggest ticket I’ve ever had, babe. I’ll be fine, I always am. When can I expect to hear from you? I have kind of a tight deadline.” You put your mouth in a line and lean forward to leave, signaling the end of this meeting.  
Sean sighs and shakes his head. “I’ll put some feelers out and get back to you in the next couple of days.” His familiar sly smile returns to his face as he looks at you. “And if it’s really that big of a job, you owe me dinner and a bottle of champagne when it’s done.”  
A smile that barely reaches your eyes creeps onto your face as you stand and shake his hand. “Deal.”  
After meeting with a few other contacts and grabbing a quick dinner you pull into a pothole-ridden parking lot for your favorite two hours of the week. You quickly hop out of your car and approach an older minivan nearby. “Hey, Carol. Let me give you a hand with those.” Grabbing a box filled with juice boxes and small bags of animal crackers you accompany a cheerful middle-aged woman into the entryway of St. Mary’s Methodist Church, a run-down building in one of the small communities around Los Santos. Watching your step with the box full of precious cargo you make your way down the stairs to the basement of the building, past a room with a paper sign marked “Domestic Violence Support Group” to a brightly decorated room a few doors down. Some of the women came early with their children and are getting them settled in before heading to the group meeting. You set the box of snacks down on a cupboard along the wall and get ready to spend the next two hours with some of the sweetest kiddos on the planet.  
***  
As you exit the building with the other volunteers who stayed behind to clean up after the meeting you see it again. Parked a distance down the street is that same black car from yesterday. On your way to dinner today you thought you had caught a glimpse of it, and this sighting now confirms that you’re being followed. Whoever is doing it is good, too. Normally you would have caught a tail by now. You turn to one of the women you had been chatting with and make a show of pretending you had forgotten something inside the building and go back in, this time leaving through a back entrance not visible from the street. Taking a back route through the neighborhood you manage to get a good look at your stalker. Somehow you recognize him, though you’ve never seen his face. “Goddamnit,” you whisper as you pull out your phone and punch in the number with a hand shaking in fury.  
“Yeah,” a male voice answers after a few rings.  
“Geoff, I thought we had a deal. A certain level of trust,” you sneer into the speaker.  
“Tex? What are you talking about? Did something happen?” Geoff’s voice becomes slightly strained. This item must be important to him.  
“Mhm. Though somehow, I think you’re not as innocent as you seem. Can you tell me why you have your rabid guard dog following me around?” Your voice drips poison.  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” He sounds genuine, but you’re still skeptical.  
“You mean to tell me that you had no idea that a maskless Vagabond has been following me around since we left our little meeting yesterday? I find that very hard to believe Mr. Ramsey.”  
“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Geoff snaps. “You’re sure it’s him?”  
“Blonde ponytail, deep blue eyes, constantly looks like he wants to stab something? I don’t need to see him without his mask to recognize that brooding stare.”  
“Tex, I assure you that he is there of his own accord. I didn’t send him, and I will bring him home immediately and deal with him personally. I have the utmost faith that you can complete this task without a babysitter. That is, if you’ll still do it.” You’re surprised at the anxious pull in his voice. From what you’ve heard, The Kingpin doesn’t enjoy asking for the things he wants.  
“Alright, Ramsey. But only because of your irresistible charm. Call your dog home, keep him from humping my leg all day, and I’ll get this job done. Talk soon.” You hang up and continue towards Ryan sitting alone in his car, attempting to watch you. Making your way around to the passenger side you open the door, jump in, and are immediately greeted by the business end of a pistol.  
“Relax, Ghost Rider. Put that thing down, would you? I’m here to chat.” Ryan doesn’t move, not even flinching when his phone begins vibrating in the cupholder. He stares at you, ignoring it. “You’re gonna want to get that. Ten bucks says it’s your boss.” You smile in triumph as he looks at the caller ID, lowers his pistol, and glances back at you.  
“Yeah, Geoff.” It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak. His voice is low, tone curt and to the point. Pretty much what you expected, though something makes you think there is a potential for incredible gentleness under the hard surface of the Vagabond. Geoff screams at him over the phone, loud enough that you can hear the cracking in his voice as both his volume and pitch increase. The Vagabond doesn’t flinch at his fury. “Fine. I’ll head back now.” Ryan ends the call and turns to you with fire in his ocean eyes. “You tattled on me?”  
“Technically I called him to ask why he thought I couldn’t be trusted. Then I found out that he had no idea you were following me around all day. So, I’m wondering what’s going on. Aw, do you have a little crush?” You let out a girlish giggle as you continue. “How lucky am I, the one and only Vagabond is courting little old me!” The smile that spreads across your face is anything but girlish; it drips venom and seethes danger. It’s a smile that warns of your power, your willingness and ability to take on a man that has turned into a nightmarish legend. “What are you doing here, Vagabond?”  
“What, a man can’t take an evening drive through the neighborhood?” His eyes match your smile. They reflect your energy, and you know that he would love nothing more than for you to attack so that he could end you. And he would enjoy every second of it. “Geoff has always been too trusting. I know better.”  
“I suppose you having trust issues makes a lot of sense. So, what exactly do you know? What useful information have you gathered tonight?”  
“Enough. Now if you would kindly exit my car I should be getting back.”  
“Right, don’t want to keep Daddy waiting. Sounds like you might be grounded. Bye-bye, Grim. And remember, stay off my ass if you want your boss’ deal to go well.” With that final remark you exit Ryan’s car and slam the door on his angry glare.  
Finally knowing that you’re free from the Vagabond’s shadow has put a bit of a spring in your step as you hop up the landing from your garage to your house in the Los Santos hills. You are immediately greeted by a loud purring and furry presence winding itself through your legs, nearly tripping you as you attempt to put your things away. “Jesus, Turtle, I missed you too!” He lets out a squeak as you scoop him into your arms and bury your face in his tortoiseshell fur, giggling as he moves his rough tongue along your cheek. Turtle was a scrawny kitten when you found him on a job a few years ago; he was barely able to see through an infection in both eyes and starving. You resolved to take him to a shelter the next morning but those amber eyes had you buying cat food and making a vet appointment instead. Now he sleeps by your side every night you’re home and loves nothing more than begging for scraps and trying to kill you when you walk through the door.  
A quick shower and final sweep of the house and yard sees you off to bed, Turtle climbing to his usual place in the crook of your bent knees.  
No sooner have you fallen asleep than you are jolted awake by the sound of broken glass and the feeling of your cat running for cover. There’s no time for you to reach for any sort of weapon before a large hand shoves you into the mattress and the barrel of a gun is pressed against your throat. “Stay out of business you don’t understand, bitch,” the voice growls.  
“The fuck are you talking about?” It’s hard to speak with a gun pressed tightly to your neck and the weight of a man on your chest, but you hope that you sound more threatening than you feel.  
“Your deal with the Fakes is done, effective immediately. If you know what’s good for you stay the fuck out of our business.”  
It infuriates you that this douchebag thinks he can intimidate you into anything, and it angers you even more that he thinks he can come into your house in the middle of the night and get his way. Unfortunately, you don’t have many choices at the moment. Squinting in the darkness you try to make out his features, but all you can really tell is that he’s wearing a mask. His voice will have to do as an identifier. You make a mental note to scour the internet later for some new sharp toys to tear this asshole apart with when you find him later. He takes your silence as an affirmation and backs away towards two other men you hadn’t noticed before, all of their guns trained on you. “We’ll be watching,” he says before leaving through your broken window.  
After waiting a few moments, you pick up your phone and frantically dial. “We’ve got a problem.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff is pissed. But you're out for blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit longer than the others, and some of the later chapters are longer too. I had considered trying to keep them all around the same length, but ultimately trying to split up some of them would break the flow, and I couldn't think of a way that I wanted to revise the chapters to make them fit a more uniform length. I hope you guys enjoy the longer read!

“They came into my fucking home, Geoff! They broke the window in my goddamn bedroom and scared the shit out of my cat! They’re fucking dead. I want their heads on spikes outside my fucking door. Fuck!” You shout as you pace your living room and kick one of Turtle’s toys across the room. The happy jingling bell inside it does not reflect your murderous mood. Neither does your oversized t-shirt and brightly colored pajama pants combination, for that matter. Bringing the Fakes here was something you had wanted to avoid, but the last time someone found out where you lived they burned it to the ground. You weren’t taking any chances this time.  
“Very Medieval, I’m in!” Rimmy Tim, a man dressed in one of the most ridiculous orange and purple costumes you have ever seen, chimes in. You appreciate his support, but it’s difficult to take him seriously dressed in that god-awful color combination and white cowboy hat. Geoff must trust his skills, though, to bring him here.  
Geoff stares at the floor, his moustache twitching with barely contained rage of his own. “I’m really sorry these assholes found you, and that they came after you in the first place. I get it if you want to back out. We’ll pay you for the work you’ve already done if you just pass on what you’ve learned.”  
His offer stops you in your tracks, shocked and slightly insulted at what he’s implying. “Are you shitting me? I’m finishing this fucking thing, whether those motherfuckers like it or not. No one fucks with me and gets their way. A little home invasion isn’t going to scare me off.” You spit the last sentence in his direction.  
He meets your steel gaze and nods, jaw clenched. “Good. Then we’ve got some work to do. But first we need to figure out where you’re staying. Obviously here isn’t an option.”  
“How about she comes to the penthouse? We have an extra room!” A thin man with a British accent and gold-rimmed sunglasses perched on the top of his head shouts as he bounds down your stairs, Turtle following close behind. “The cat can come too!” He scoops your poor fur baby into his arms and starts muttering nonsense into his neck. You recognize him as the buffoon who outed Ryan’s identity on the phone, the crew’s Golden Boy, though when he walked through the door, he introduced himself as Gavin.  
“Put the cat down, dipshit.” Geoff says. “Did you find anything upstairs?”  
Rimmy Tim crosses the room and takes Turtle, showering him in an equal amount of mushy kitty love as Gavin moves farther into the living room and responds. “Nothing really important. They basically smashed in and left. There are some muddy footprints on the carpet but we’re not going to get much from their shoe size. We already know who it was.”  
“Anyone want to fill me in?” You ask, irritated as you take your cat back from the purple and orange monstrosity and deposit him safely on the cat tower in the corner of the room.  
“Later. We’re going to have a meeting and debrief everyone. And as much as I hate to agree with Gavin, you should probably stay at our place. It will be safer for all of us to be together. Is there anyone who can watch your cat for a while?” Geoff doesn’t appear too excited at the prospect of a pet wandering his house.  
You consider your options for a moment. The list of people you would trust to watch your cat is incredibly short, and basically consists of your mother. With all of the shit this job has put you through so far, though, you decide to take advantage of Geoff’s kind behavior. “No one comes to mind. Guess he’ll just have to stay with me.” A smirk flits across your face, and Geoff’s moustache twitches slightly again as the other men cheer.  
The three of them make one last sweep of the house as you change and pack the things you’ll need for your stay at Casa de Fake. No one knows how long you’ll be there, so you grab about a week’s worth of everyday outfits with a few pieces of just-in-case heist and business attire. A separate, smaller duffel is loaded with cat food, toys, and other necessities. Gavin and Rimmy Tim fight over who gets to hold the cat carrier in the car as you bring your bags downstairs.  
“Snickers will be riding with me in my car. I guess if one of you guys wants to ride with me that’s cool.” Setting your bags on the ground in the foyer, you grab your keys off of a rack on the wall.  
Geoff emerges from the kitchen holding a few pieces of candy that you recognize from a jar on your kitchen counter. You raise an eyebrow at him but decide to let it slide. “Actually, I have a different plan. Rimmy and Gavin, you guys take Tex’s car and park it in one of our warehouses. Keep it well hidden.”  
“Oh, no fucking way-“ you begin to protest, but Geoff holds up a hand to stop you.  
“I know, but it’s best if these people don’t find your vehicle anywhere near our base, and hiding it somewhere will make it look like you skipped town. You can use one of my cars if you need to go somewhere, or one of the crew will drive you wherever you need.”  
You take in a breath, ready to continue arguing, but you realize he’s right and press your mouth into a flat line of defeat. “Fine.” Quickly, you grab your heavier bag and throw it into his arms. “I’ll meet you in the car.”  
Geoff drives in silence for a few minutes before glancing at the clock on the dash and letting out a long sigh. “Four a.m.? Fuck it’s late.”  
“Yeah. Didn’t really realize the time with everything.” The couple hours of sleep you got before being ambushed is finally catching up to you. A yawn escapes your lips and you lean your head against the window, watching the buildings of the city go by as your eyelids grow heavier. Before you know it Geoff is gently shaking you awake, letting you know that you’ve finally arrived at your temporary home.  
He takes your bags and you carefully take the cat carrier into the elevator inside the garage, silently urging it to move faster so you can collapse into whatever bed they’re giving you for the time being. What greets you when the doors open on the penthouse’s entrance makes you wonder what the hell you did in a past life to deserve this. The thought must have registered on your face because Ryan’s expression sours even further. “Goddamnit Geoff, I thought you said no strays.”  
“Fuck off, Jack Skellington.” You mutter as you push past him into the living room. “Where am I sleeping, Geoff?”  
“Ryan, show her to one of the guest rooms upstairs.” Geoff waves dismissively as he heads down another hall, presumably to his own room.  
“This way.” Ryan says gruffly as he takes the bags Geoff put on the floor near you and walks briskly to a set of stairs next to the floor-to-ceiling windows in the expansive living room. You try your best to keep up while not jostling Turtle around too much. Ryan leads you down a hallway, past about a half-dozen doors, finally coming to a stop in front of one at the end of the hall. He opens the door and drops your bags a few feet inside. “Here we are. Enjoy.” He turns and walks out the door, accidentally bumping the carrier with his knee. Turtle lets out a mew of protest. He shoots a puzzled look at your precious cargo as if noticing it for the first time. “Christ, Geoff let you bring a cat in here?”  
You set the carrier down on the floor in front of the bed and open the door. Turtle pokes his head out and takes a cautious look around. “Yeah, what of it?”  
Ryan crosses his arms and leans against the door frame. “Nothing. Never mind.” Turtle looks at him as he speaks and carefully walks towards him. He rubs his face on Ryan’s foot before meowing at him.  
“I think he likes you. The break-in must have fucked with his judgement.” You turn and put both duffel bags on the bed, opening the one full of cat items and dig around for his favorite toy. “Fuck.” Burying your face in your hands, you let out an exasperated sigh. “I forgot his squirrel.”  
“And?” Ryan asks, crossing the room to look over your shoulder into the bag on the bed. “You have a bunch of toys in there.”  
“He’s a needy bitch. If he doesn’t have his favorite toy he’ll wander around looking for it and I’ll never get any sleep. The last time he lost it behind the TV stand he spent a solid four hours making noises at me until I found it. I have to go back to my house and get it.”  
“It’s almost five in the morning! We’ll go after everyone gets a bit of sleep. Your cat will be fine until then.” Ryan grabs a small pink mouse and wiggles it in Turtle’s direction. “Here kitty, kitty. Fetch.” He tosses it to the other side of the room, which you have now realized is way bigger than you expected. A queen-sized bed sits on the left side of it, just across from the door, with a dresser near the door. Two open doors on the west wall lead to a walk-in closet and full bathroom. The right half of the room is occupied by a large sofa and comfortable-looking chair facing a flat screen TV mounted on the east wall. The room’s color scheme is a calming cream and gold accented with neutral browns. Somehow you had pictured a cockroach-riddled shoebox, though it makes sense that the Fakes would live somewhere nice with all of the expensive shit they steal.  
You shake yourself out of examining the room and face Ryan. “Seriously, he is relentless. I need to get him that toy before he’ll let me sleep.”  
He furrows his eyebrows and sighs, his sapphire eyes shrouded in thought. “I’ll keep him occupied while you get some rest. You look like you’re about to fall over.”  
The slight bit of energy the nap you gained during the ride over leaves you as a sudden wave of exhaustion takes over. Ryan’s offer is tempting, but you trust him alone with anything you care about as much as he trusts you with, well, anything. As you’re about to refuse Turtle comes over and once again rubs on Ryan. He picks him up and Turtle nestles his head into Ryan’s shoulder. He’s never taken to anyone so quickly. This behavior catches you off guard, and you find yourself handing the bag of cat supplies to Ryan. “If there is a hair out of place, you’re fucking dead.”  
He barks out a laugh as he takes the bag from you. “See you in a few hours.”  
It takes you a moment to get your bearings after waking up. The events of the last few hours work a slow path back into your consciousness, and as soon as they do you wish you could just sink back into the plush comfort of your guest bed. Unfortunately, the need to be a responsible, functioning human being gets you out of bed and dressed in a loose gray t-shirt and jeans. You examine yourself in the mirror before rubbing the sleep from your eyes and throwing your hair into a messy bun.  
“No use trying to do much today, no amount of makeup is going to cover the suitcases under my eyes.” You say to yourself as you check the time on your phone. Nine-thirty, and already a dozen emails about the hotels. After shooting a few messages to your various managers that you will be taking some personal time you decide to see how your cat is doing.  
The living room downstairs is empty, but there is a strong smell of coffee in the air and you follow it, hungry for the relief of caffeine. The kitchen is down the hallway Geoff entered last night. It’s extravagant, filled with high-end appliances and miles of marble counters. A long dining table with benches runs the length of the room next to an island big enough for almost a dozen bar stools. Geoff has his back to you as he brings several mugs down from a cupboard above the gurgling coffee maker. Without saying a word, he hands you a steaming mug.  
“Thanks,” you mumble as you take a grateful sip. The warmth of the mug and the liquid within spreads through your stomach and helps you move past the exhaustion settled in every piece of you. “Coffee makes everything better.”  
“Damn straight,” a voice calls from the kitchen’s doorway. Ryan strides in and pours himself a cup, nodding a greeting at Geoff.  
“How was Turtle last night?” You can’t hold back the slight twinge of concern that creeps into your voice.  
“Why don’t you ask him yourself. He slept through most of the night.” Ryan turns to look behind him and you see Turtle following close behind.  
“Come on, not in the kitchen! We make food here!” Geoff groans as you happily scoop your cat into your arms and give him a loving squeeze.  
“Don’t worry Geoff, we’ll be out of your hair soon enough. I have to run back to the house to grab a few things.”  
“Fine, but be quick about it. We have to assume they’re monitoring your house. Ryan, go with her. And don’t give me that shit, they don’t know your face and if they catch her with us they may do more than make threats.” Geoff quickly adds when he sees the two of you about to argue.  
You place Turtle gently on the ground and walk out of the kitchen. “Come on, Halloweentown. We’ve got shit to grab.”  
The two of you take the car Ryan used to follow you the other day. Ryan seems content to sit in silence the entire ride, but you can’t contain yourself. “Look, we’re going to have to deal with each other for a while, so we might as well try and get along. At the very least we should be able to have a conversation.”  
“Fine.” His tone is flat, giving nothing away. He keeps his eyes focused on the road, not even glancing in your direction.  
“Great. Good talk. Really feel like we worked out some issues,” you reply as Ryan pulls the car into your driveway. You walk briskly to the door and pull it open. The moment you do a voice calls your name from the living room. “Shit,” you whisper under your breath as your mother emerges in the entryway. “Mom! Hey, I was just about to call you!”  
“Well, I would hope so! Y/N, did you forget about our brunch date?” Your mother gathers you into a hug. “You haven’t been answering your phone, and the window in your bedroom is broken! I thought you had been kidnapped or something. Is everything okay?” She’s talking so fast that you can’t get a word in before Ryan walks through the door behind you. “Oh, who’s this? Is he your boyfriend? Hello, I’m Adrian, Y/N’s mom.” She releases you and offers her hand to Ryan, who appears completely unfazed by the whole situation.  
“Yes, I am Y/N’s boyfriend, Ryan, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” The pleasant smile on his face seems so natural, as if the two of you were having a normal morning out as a couple instead of sitting in sullen silence the entire drive over.  
“Y/N, you didn’t tell me you were seeing anyone! Or that you were bringing him to brunch,” your mother chides you. Ryan puts his arm around your waist and smiles down at you. He’s having far too much fun with this.  
“She’s had a long night. Some kids smashed her window in some sort of prank. I insisted she stay at my place for a few days until it can be fixed. Brunch must have completely slipped her mind in all of the chaos. We only came back here to grab some more of her things.”  
“Oh no! I’m so sorry sweetheart. Hopefully brunch and a few mimosas will help, hm?”  
Despite Ryan’s insistence on playing the ridiculously annoying role of your doting boyfriend, you appreciate him coming up with a reasonable excuse for both the window and you being an awful daughter. Somehow you doubt it was entirely selfless, though. Keeping your mother from worrying and coming to your door must make his life or his job easier in some way. You make a mental note to tell her he did something terrible that forced you to leave him after this is done.  
Even though you are exhausted and would like nothing more than to crawl back into bed, you insist that you’re fine and go to brunch with your mother and Ryan after gathering the rest of your things. Maybe a mimosa will improve the day.  
Ryan offers you his arm when you get to the restaurant, and you can feel your mother’s eyes watching so you take it. He shoots you a triumphant smile and you look sweetly back at him as you dig your fingernails sharply into the inside of his arm. His pleasant expression twitches for a moment before he shifts so that you’re holding hands instead.  
As soon as you sit down you order a mimosa and give the waiter a pleading look as your mother fawns over Ryan’s generosity in letting you stay with him while your window is fixed. He returns shortly with a full glass that is definitely ninety-nine percent champagne. Smiling, you resolve that Ryan will be giving him a very nice tip. Taking a sip of your drink, you turn back to your mother’s incessant questions about your relationship.  
“So where did the two of you meet? Y/N is always so busy with work I can’t imagine her going out to meet anyone.”  
“We actually met through work,” I jump in. “At that conference I went to upstate last month.”  
Ryan doesn’t skip a beat. “We were in a business meeting, and the first moment I saw her I completely forgot about business. When she spoke, I could tell how passionate she was about everything. I knew I couldn’t let her go.”  
Your mother is completely enraptured by Ryan’s romantic tale, but your fake smile falters for a moment in confusion. He sounds so … genuine. Damn, he’s a good actor, you think as you take another swig of your drink, letting the bubbles of champagne fizzle along your tongue and shake you out of your reverie.  
The rest of brunch goes by with several agonizing minutes of your mother revealing details about your personal life to a man who you believe would gladly slit your throat given the chance. Ryan spins stories of his life now and the time you two have spent together since that fateful “business meeting” upstate. You sit in sullen, anxious silence until the bill comes. Before you can even get your wallet out Ryan is setting a wad of cash in the waiter’s hand and telling him to keep the change. “At least I get a free meal out of this bullshit,” you grumble to yourself.  
“What was that, dear?” your mother asks.  
“I was just saying that we should really be going. I can call you a cab and we can all be on our way!”  
“Nonsense, sweetheart! We should take your lovely mother home!” Ryan offers, a wicked grin spreading across his face.  
The thought of the Vagabond knowing where the most important person in your life lives fills you with a cold fear that twists its way through your veins.  
“What a gentlemanly offer, but I have a few more errands to run in the city. I’ll just walk from here, maybe work off one of those mimosas!” your mother replies.  
You let out the breath you didn’t realize you were holding as you climb into the passenger seat of Ryan’s car. The moment the car turns the corner leaving your mother out of sight you turn on Ryan, your eyes blazing. “What in the incredible fuck was that about?”  
His eyebrows furrow in anger and his face settles into a scowl. Every feature is nearly unrecognizable from the cheerful, suave man you had spent the morning with. It was more familiar and somehow gave you a sense of comfort rather than the fear those stormy sea eyes would instill in any other person.  
“Someone had to keep her off our asses and away from anything to do with you. If they’re still watching your place that could have turned into a homicide scene very quickly. It’s too messy and we don’t need the cops in our business.” He spits the words in your direction and their meaning slowly sinks in. A flurry of emotions stampedes through you, leaving your heart pounding as you settle on the most familiar: seething rage.  
“If they lay a hand on her, I will burn this city to the ground. No one fucks with my family and lives. No one.” You punctuate this last line by meeting Ryan’s gaze. He needs to know exactly who he’s dealing with. After a moment he nods, accepting what would happen if he were to use the information he gained today for ill purposes.  
The rest of the ride back to the penthouse is silent, all attempts at being friendly with Ryan gone after the morning’s events. Neither one of you makes a sound as the elevator doors close in the garage and open several floors up to reveal a wave of incoherent screaming rising over lively video game music. Gavin and Michael are engaged in a fierce game of Mario Party with two women you don’t recognize. A short man with obnoxiously bright purple and orange hair is focused on a game of keep-away with a feather on a string bouncing over Turtle’s head.  
No one notices your presence until Ryan moves farther into the living room and clears his throat. Someone pauses the game and Snickers trots over to your side, rubbing his face on your leg and drawing the brightly colored man’s attention.  
“Oh hey, you’re Tex, right? I’m Lindsay, this is Meg,” the red-headed woman gestures to the petite brunette next to her, “and over there is Jeremy.” He gives a small wave and a smile nearly as bright as his hair upon the introduction.  
“Nice to meet you all. Hey, Gavin and Jeremy, I don’t think I properly thanked you guys for helping me out last night.”  
A puzzled look crosses Jeremy’s face. “I wasn’t there last night. This is the first time we’ve met.”  
“Right,” you chuckle, “Rimmy Tim helped me out last night. You’ll have to tell me where that name and color combo came from sometime.”  
Jeremy still seems confused. “I didn’t come up with anything. That was all Rimmy.”  
You shoot a look to Ryan, now just as confused as Jeremy appears. “Is he serious?’  
“Unfortunately,” he replies. “Give it up Jeremy, she knows you’re Rimmy Tim.”  
“What? How?” Jeremy exclaims. “Who told you?” Everyone else in the room rolls their eyes at this, but you still have no clue what’s going on.  
“I’m a master of deduction,” you remark, sarcasm dripping from every word. Laughter rolls through the room and you find yourself caught up in the feeling of close friendship between everyone here. You feel as though you can trust these perfect strangers with almost anything, even the raging psychopath that is Ryan/The Vagabond. These people are a family, and a part of you wants to stay and play video games with them for the rest of eternity. What you do next surprises everyone, even yourself. “Call me Y/N, by the way. Tex is my work name.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone finally gives you a name to add to your shit list.

While you and the others are chatting in the Fake’s living room a tall, thin man with dark eyes and black hair enters holding a steaming mug of coffee. “Meeting in the conference room,” he announces to no one in particular, ghosting out of the room as quietly as he came.  
“Jesus, Treyco looks fucking dead,” Michael says from his spot on the couch. “Did he get any sleep last night?”  
“Doubt it,” Lindsay replies. “He’s been working on all of this technical shit for the crew this week. Glad it’s not my job anymore.” Seeing your confusion, she adds, “Trevor keeps the lights on and makes sure no one kills themselves. Basically, whatever Geoff doesn’t want to handle. I used to, but heists are so much more fun to do than plan.”  
“We should probably head over there. He could drop dead when that caffeine stops working.” Jeremy reluctantly stops giving Turtle attention and heads to the hallway Trevor just stalked down. Everyone else begins to follow, but you hesitate. Is this a crew meeting? You’re not technically a part of the crew. You’re hired help and a temporary houseguest. Would you be welcome in what appears to be a family meeting?  
Ryan is the last to leave the living room, turning in the end of the hallway to see you standing behind the couch looking conflicted. “Don’t you want to know who tried to kill you?” he asks. You nod your head and follow him, hoping that you won’t feel too out of place.  
The room is far less chaotic than you would expect from your impressions of the crew, though you suppose if they all have to settle down and be adults at some point this would be the best place. A large white board hangs on the far end, covered in photos and plans. A muted gray shade covers the walls, with matching office carpeting. There is only one frame on the left wall, hung delicately around a fist-sized hole. You smirk at the one indicator of the crew’s personality.  
Geoff is standing at the head of a long table in the middle of the room with Jack seated at his right hand. She gives you the same warm smile from that meeting days ago and motions to the empty seat next to her. As you sit down you notice another unfamiliar person at the table with his face buried in a laptop, and once again a feeling of discomfort settles over you. New people aren’t exactly your favorite thing, and now that you’ve spilled your real name to the others earlier there would be no sense in hiding behind your secret identity now.  
“Hey, I’m Y/N,” you say with a slight wave to him.  
He doesn’t seem to hear you and after a beat Jack clears her throat. “Matt. Our guest is trying to introduce herself.”  
The man with shaggy hair and glasses jumps and sputters apologies before holding out his hand in greeting. “Hey, I’m Matt.” After the two of you shake hands he turns back to whatever he was working on, and Geoff signals to the crew that he is ready to begin.  
“Alright fuckers, let’s get this shit over with. We all know who we’re dealing with, but because we have a new person at the table and none of you assholes listen to a goddamn thing I say anyway I’m going to do a brief recap,” Geoff gestures to the whiteboard behind him covered with pictures of faces and locations, a map of Los Santos, and some notes scribbled haphazardly around everything. “This is most of the information we have on Anarchy Rising, a new crew attempting to encroach on our territory.”  
“Fuck those guys and their dumbass name!” Michael shouts from one end of the table. Lindsay gives him a high-five as the rest of the crew joins in, jeering at the audacity of a group no one had heard of before a few months ago. You were surprised they were trying the Fakes so early in their career, though it doesn’t entirely shock you. People will often try to assert their dominance and grab fame immediately by going after the biggest players. They assume that if they can take them out, they get to take their place. Most of the time, they get their shit pushed in. The kingpins in Los Santos don’t fuck around. You have had to take care of your fair share of dealers trying to take over your clients.  
“The leader of this merry bunch of idiots calls himself Leviathan-“ Geoff is cut off by more insults from the crew thrown at the criminal’s pen name. He calls for silence before motioning to a picture of an angry looking man with a large, square nose and tall forehead. His hair is slicked back against his head with what appears to be all of the grease in the world. The picture seems to be a mugshot, with the familiar blank wall and poor resolution. “We know that his real name is Colt Dreyer. He used to do some recon work for us a few years ago, and he was always butthurt that I didn’t give him an official spot in the crew. My assumption is that he’s found the balls and the guns to ‘exact his revenge’ or whatever.” He brings his fingers up in air quotes around the last phrase, obviously not threatened by whatever Colt, or “Leviathan”, has come up with.  
“Now for the important shit. A short time ago we got a special tip from one of our contacts that a specific bit of weaponized software would be the best way to get past Anarchy’s security in their home base. Normally I wouldn’t bother with some small-time crew making threats, but this guy’s been gathering a lot of heavy shit lately and it was suggested to me that we should take care of him before this becomes a bigger problem.”  
“I got your back, boss,” Trevor calls from the corner of the room, raising his coffee mug in mock salute.  
“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, we called on Y/N because she’s got a good reputation for finding shit that’s hard to pin down. Early this morning her home was broken into, and she was threatened to stay away from us. I think it’s safe to assume that Leviathan is responsible. She’ll be staying here until this job is done or it’s safe for her to go back home. Speaking of, how much progress have you made on finding that chip thing?” Geoff turns to you and rests his hands on the table.  
The room turns to look in your direction and you take a breath. “I have some feelers out. A friend of mine should be getting back to me in the next couple days, but until then I have other contacts I need to talk to. Alone.” You put some emphasis on the last word, holding back Geoff’s inevitable protest. “I know these guys can be dangerous, but my contacts won’t trust me with a Fake shadow. I’ll keep my phone on and let you guys know if I see any activity with these ‘Anarchy Rising’ types.”  
“Sounds good to me. We done here?” Ryan says to Geoff. “I have some weaponry to polish.”  
“Not so fast, assholes,” Geoff shoots a sharp look at Ryan as everyone begins to get up. “There’s work to do on our end. Gavin, work with Matt on digging up more records on other members of Anarchy. Michael and Jeremy, go out and talk with some of our contacts to see what kind of danger Y/N might be in. Meg and Lindsay, work on getting some of the cars armored as dicks. We’ll need it later, I’m sure. Jack, keep doing whatever it is you do that keeps us alive, and Trevor you need to get some fucking sleep.” Everyone starts to shuffle out of the room before Geoff speaks again. “Stay back, Ryan, I need to talk to you.”  
Ryan sighs before sitting back down in his chair. You smirk at him on your way out the door, going to your room and making yourself presentable to meet with contacts and hopefully get some information that will get you out of this place.  
A little over an hour later you are walking through a shadier part of downtown Los Santos. The buildings are older and covered with graffiti, and most of the businesses consist of 24-hour liquor stores and strip clubs with bathrooms you couldn’t be paid to use. Twin 9mm pistols sit comfortably in shoulder holsters under your slightly-oversized black leather jacket. A smaller pistol is tucked into your loosely-tied black combat boots, and a small arsenal of throwing knives are hidden wherever they can fit on the rest of your body.  
As you turn into a darkened alley the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. You hear someone step into the mouth of the alley, your only escape. A knife slips into your hand and your heart begins to race as you turn. Relief washes over you as you realize who it is. “Goddamnit, Ben, I almost fucking killed you!”  
“Nah, I’m way too good for that,” Ben, a freelance hacker, says before seeing the glint of steel from the blade in your palm. “Jesus, Tex, is that really necessary? When did you get so skittish?”  
“Since someone threatened to kill me. With a gun, in the middle of my bedroom.”  
“Odd way for a Tinder date to go, though I have had worse,” he laughs, taking a step forward so you can see the mischief in his dark eyes. As usual, his mess of hair is hidden under a hoodie. “Have you tried Ok Cupid? A cousin of mine met three of his wives there.”  
“As much as I would love to sit here and discuss my love life, I have other things to do today. Did you get anything on that software I sent you?”  
“Only that it’s bounced from country to country over the past four months to finally end up in the States about two weeks ago. It was on auction as soon as it got here, but I couldn’t get a name on a buyer. All I know is that it’s somewhere here in Los Santos.”  
“That narrows it down.” The bite in your tone must have been too harsh, because Ben holds up his hands in defense before replying.  
“Hey, this must be some heavy-duty shit. If I can’t crack those files, they must not want to be found. Sorry, Tex, but that’s all I can do for you.”  
“Maybe, maybe not,” you consider how much to reveal to Ben in your next question. “Have you heard of Anarchy Rising? They’re pretty new on the scene.”  
He snorts out a laugh and rolls his blue eyes. “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard of them. Not my favorite people. They hired me for a job about a month back and then shorted me like ten grand. When I confronted them about it their leader threatened to burn my fucking house down. Dick move, right?”  
“Definitely. What kind of job did they need you for?”  
“They had me get into some offshore accounts and get some start-up money. Nothing terribly advanced, but pretty easy to fuck up so it’s best to get a professional. Is that who you’re working for right now?” Ben looks worried. You’re not exactly friends, but he’s a decent guy and is always good at steering clients towards or away from you, depending on who they are.  
“No, I’ve just heard of them and was thinking about offering them my business. I won’t now, though. That douchebag leader, what was his name? I heard it was something dumb.”  
“Leviathan.” Ben’s lips peel back in a sneer. “Motherfucker is exactly like those guys who go way too hard in the gym to show off to everyone else and then act like an asshole to the people at the juice bar. He even had a stupid tattoo, one of those tribal half-sleeve things around his bicep.”  
You chuckle at the image. Hopefully this guy is as easy to take down as those pretentious dicks. “Thanks for the info, Ben. Here’s your payment, as promised.” You toss him a roll of bills. “Give me a call if you find out anything else, on the software or this new crew.”  
He gives you a half-hearted salute and walks out of the alley. You stay behind, giving him a head start so the two of you aren’t seen together, and taking a moment to ponder what he’s told you. The information on the chip was fairly useless, but what he told you about Anarchy and Leviathan may be of some help. It at the very least gave you an increased understanding of Colt’s personality and the way his crew treats others.  
Finally, you begin to walk to the mouth of the alley. When you are just a few paces away a pair of broad-shouldered men with menacing expressions step into your path. They’re similarly dressed in dark jeans and tight t-shirts with dark-lensed aviator sunglasses.  
“Hey guys, the ‘generic bad-guy’ auditions are down the street. Move along,” you motion with your head for them to get out of your way as you cross your arms, tucking your hands slightly beneath your jacket. The two men share a look before advancing towards you.  
“We warned you to stay away from them,” the one on your left says.  
“You don’t take orders very well, do you bitch?” the other adds. You don’t recognize either of the voices, though you know exactly who they belong to.  
“Tell your boss Leviathan to shove his orders up his ass.” In a flash you pull the pistols from your shoulder holsters and fire a round from each, hitting the man on the left in the throat and the one on the right in the chest. They fall together with a thud, leaving the alley silent for a moment. It doesn’t last long, though. You hear the sound of a bullet glancing off the building next to you. Quickly you duck behind a trash can, searching for the coward that nearly shot you in the back of the head. You spot her at the back of the alley near a door in one of the adjacent buildings. More bullets whizz by your hiding space and you spot two more people on the tops of the buildings surrounding you. The woman in the alley says something into a radio, and shortly after you hear footsteps approaching the alley.  
They were prepared. You don’t know how, but they knew exactly where you would be and had the time to orchestrate a full-scale ambush. Your frantic speculation about how is interrupted by four more Anarchy members coming to block your only exit. You are situated between a few piled trash cans and a large dumpster, temporarily shielding you from their bullets. In just a moment the new arrivals will be in front of you, and based on the attitudes of the new corpses behind them you doubt they’re here to give you another warning. You pull a few of your knives from their various hiding places and prepare for a messy fight.  
Every muscle tensed in anticipation, you wait for someone to waltz into view. Before you get the chance to slash someone open, there are a series of grunts and surprised shouts, followed by more gunfire from the people behind you.  
“Tex! This way!” A man’s voice shouts to you from the alley’s opening. You recognize the voice, but don’t believe it until you leave your cover for a moment to look at him.  
“Vagabond?” you call back at the flash of his black-and-blue jacket and the dark skull mask as he ducks behind cover of his own.  
“Are you going to sit there and call my name all day or are we getting out of here?” he yells back over the cacophony of gunfire. The second your enemies begin to reload you are on your feet, running the few paces to Ryan and leaping over the fallen bodies of the reinforcements he just saved you from.  
“You and your fucking boss are getting an earful about following me if we make it out of this alive,” you snarl as he takes aim at one of the shooters on the roof.  
“Less talky, more shooty,” he says as the sniper to your left takes a bullet in the shoulder and falls out of sight.  
“Hurry, we need to get the fuck out of here. Leviathan could have an army on its way for all we know.” You take a shot at the other sniper and smirk as he falls over the edge of the building and lands with a satisfying crash onto the edge of a dumpster before dropping inside, lifeless.  
Now just the woman in the doorway is left standing. She yells into her radio, calling for backup. Fear shines in her eyes. You exit your cover and slowly take a few steps towards her. She raises her pistol and you can see her shaking violently. A crazed smile crosses your face as she shoots and misses, emptying her clip into the air and walls around you. She throws the gun to the ground with a scream and lunges for you with a small blade in her hand. Your smile grows as you raise your own weapon and step out of the way, arcing your arm so that your blade catches her just below her breasts and slices viciously through her chest. She stumbles and falls into a pile of trash faceup, clutching the wound. You walk slowly to her, towering above her like a cat who just cornered an injured bird.  
Before you can have your fun, however, the sound of tires screeching catches your attention. “Time to go!” Ryan shouts, grabbing your arm and wrenching you from your prey. A dissatisfied growl escapes your lips as you reluctantly follow him out of the alley. In a moment the two of you are dashing through the street, running through side alleys and hoping Anarchy’s military-grade SUVs won’t be able to follow you. While two people on foot certainly aren’t faster than a squad of vehicles, you know this part of the city well and lead Ryan in a winding path through alleys and side streets and manage to lose their pursuit. You pull him into an abandoned building and you both collapse to the ground, breathing hard.  
“Holy fucking shit,” you pant as you search yourself for injuries. “We’re alive!”  
“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet,” Ryan grunts, clutching his side. You inhale sharply as blood seeps through his fingers. He takes off his mask and props himself against some old furniture. Gingerly he lifts his shirt to reveal a gunshot wound in his right side. “How proficient are you in battlefield medicine?”  
“Enough, but we should get the crew out here to take us home. Think you can stay conscious long enough to make a phone call?”  
He gives a curt nod and you hand him your phone. While he talks to Geoff and arranges an extraction you tear away strips of cloth from your shirt and try to stop the bleeding. You get a better look at the wound and relax at what you see. “It’s just a graze. A deep one, but you’ll be fine once we get back to the penthouse.”  
“Which should be soon,” Ryan replies as he hangs up the phone. “Geoff had Gavin track your location and the Lads are on their way.” He hands you back your cell and you slip it back into your pocket. You meet his eyes and suddenly remember that you were supposed to be at that meeting alone. How was he coincidentally there to help you?  
“Geoff told you to follow me again, didn’t he?” you ask, trying to keep the anger from your voice.  
“He was right to. You would have been beaten half to death, or worse, if I hadn’t shown up,” Ryan’s eyes betray no emotion, his tone so flat and matter-of-fact that it pushes you into fury.  
“I can take care of myself! When will you people realize that? I would have found a way out of that alley with or without you. And who got shot here, anyway?” You turned your back on Ryan at the beginning of your outburst, but now you turn to meet his gaze once again. His eyes are narrowed and you see him grit his teeth at your final words. A smug look crosses your face at making him show some emotion.  
“I’m not having this argument with you. I had my orders and I followed them. Maybe if you did the same instead of fighting us at every step we wouldn’t be in this mess.” He matches your hot fury with a coldness all his own. One of his hands clutches your makeshift bandage to the wound in his side, but the other is clenched in a tight fist.  
Before you can reply the sound of screeching tires and shouting breaks through the tension in your conversation. You reach for one of your pistols and peek out of a gap in one of the boarded-up windows. “It’s the guys. Black SUV with a Fake symbol on the hood. So much for keeping a low profile.”  
Jack stitches Ryan up in the infirmary while you take a much-needed shower, letting the hot water batter your already bruised body. While you’re getting dressed and going over your many small injuries there is a knock at your door. When you open it, Jack is standing on the other side, holding a small first aid kit and wearing her classic motherly smile.  
“How are you feeling, Y/N?” she asks as you step aside to let her in.  
“I’ve been worse. Been better, too, I suppose,” you reply, raking a hand through your damp hair and taking a seat on the couch on one end of your guest suite. Jack settles in next to you with some antiseptic spray and gets to work on the small cuts and scrapes you acquired during the fight and subsequent chase. “Is Ryan okay?”  
“He’s fine. More pissed than anything. I’m sorry that he hasn’t been entirely welcoming.”  
“When is he not angry? Who shoved that stick so far up his ass?” You wince as Jack tends to a particularly nasty cut on your shoulder. How the hell did you get so scraped up?  
“He has trouble trusting people, letting them in. Ryan’s been through a lot and it took a long time for him to trust us, his own crew. I’m sure you understand what it’s like in this business,” Jack explains, flicking her eyes up to meet your gaze.  
“I do understand. I’m sure the entire crew has seen some shit and battles their own demons daily. Most of us aren’t giant assholes all of the time.”  
“Neither is he,” she says gently.  
After Jack is done patching you up you realize how hungry the fight and chase has made you. As you walk towards the kitchen you hear Jeremy struggling with something while Ryan laughs. Walking through the doorway you see the shorter man attempting to balance on the counter while reaching towards the top of one of the cabinets, where your cat watches curiously.  
“C’mon buddy, come to Uncle Jeremy!” he calls, snapping his fingers together. “Please, I hate heights!” Another moment of cooing to your cat passes before Jeremy gently climbs down from the counter with a disgruntled sigh.  
“That cat does not give a fuck. I’m starting to like him,” Ryan chuckles as Jeremy wheezes with his hands on his knees.  
“I’m glad you’re getting along with at least one of your houseguests,” you comment as you walk into the kitchen. “Hold on Jeremy, I’ll get him down.”  
You reach into the refrigerator and grab a piece of chicken leftover from someone’s dinner. “Gayvin” is written on the top of the container, and you wonder to yourself if it was someone’s prank or Gavin’s terrible handwriting. Carefully, you climb onto the counter and plant both feet firmly on the edge. Turtle seems excited to see his mom, but he doesn’t move until you wave the chicken in front of his nose and call to him. “Here, Turt. My little Turtie baby!” Slowly he makes his way to the edge and you pull him gently to you, bending down to hand him to a very happy Jeremy.  
As you try to make your way down from the counter, your stocking feet slip on the polished marble. You cry out as your balance leaves you and the floor rushes up. Before you hit the ground, a pair of strong arms wrap around your shoulders and under your legs. You wrap your arms around Ryan’s neck and look into his deep blue eyes. The both of you stay like that for a moment, holding each other before he sets you down and stares at the floor. You’re almost certain a slight blush covered his cheeks for a moment. Maybe because one spreads across your face as well.  
“Shit, are you okay?” Jeremy asks while he tries to calm a squirming Turtle.  
“I’m fine, thanks to Ryan. Second time he’s saved my ass today.” You give him a warm smile. The shower and Jack’s medical attention have made you realize how bad that fight was, that it could have been far worse, and that you were a bit of an asshole. Spending a few minutes with her is making you soft. Or maybe she’s just good at making people see what they need to.  
Ryan returns your smile with a little less enthusiasm, but it was probably the most you’ve gotten from him yet. The three of you chat a bit more while you whip up some late-night scrambled eggs. The guys are grateful for a hot meal of any kind after a full day of work. Once the food is gone the weight of the day settles deep into your shoulders and everyone agrees to call it a night.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You find yourself in the middle of another sleepless night.

Voices break through the thick cloud of sleep that envelopes you, the sharp cut of angry words and quickly rising volume becoming clearer with each passing moment. None of the words are clear enough to decipher, but you don’t need to know what they’re fighting about. The only important thing is that each crescendo of male screaming is punctuated by the sharp crash of another lamp, book, anything that is within reach putting yet another dent in the wall. It quickly turns into a duet, a high-pitched scream accompanying every drumbeat of heavy, drunken footsteps and misplaced fists connecting with drywall. The chorus ends with a sharp smack of hand on cheek and sobs that fade into silence. All that is left is the faint touch of a stuffed bear clutched to a little girl’s chest and a faded image of glowing plastic stars dotted across the ceiling.  
You sit bolt upright in bed, coated in sweat and trembling so violently you’re nearly vibrating. 3:47 reads the clock on your phone. Your head falls into your hands as memories of the last couple of days flash across your vision. The scrapes and bruises covering your body bring you back to reality as a feeling of calm settles into your bones. “You aren’t eight years old anymore,” you mutter while blinking away the image of those stars glowing against the white ceiling and slowly crawling out of bed. You’re awake now, might as well get up and do something.  
Clad in a hoodie and a pair of athletic leggings you slip silently into the kitchen. Frustration sours your mood further as you find many of the cupboards filled with junk food, energy drinks, and Diet Coke. The others sit empty. “Does anyone do any actual cooking around here?” you ask to yet another empty cupboard as the door swings shut. “Guess I’m taking a late-night stroll.”  
Back in your room you slip on some sneakers, grab your purse, and tuck a pistol safely in the waistband of your pants. Hopefully you won’t encounter any Anarchy members, but better safe than sorry.  
A few blocks away from the penthouse is a small grocery store with its lights still shining onto the street through the large windows and glass front doors. An older man stands behind the counter doing what looks like a crossword from the previous day’s newspaper. The bell for the door brightly sings your arrival as you gently push the door open. The man-Hank, according to his nametag-looks at you over his glasses and smiles.  
“Welcome! What are you doing up at this hour?” his demeanor is far too happy-grandpa for this time of night.  
“I could ask you the same thing,” you reply, returning his smile with genuine warmth. Extra-cheery is incredibly welcome after the week you’ve had.  
“Touché, young lady. Anything I can help you with on this fine night?”  
“Baking supplies.” He nods and walks down an aisle, motioning for you to follow.  
“Baking your troubles away?” He asks casually as he slowly makes his way through the small store.  
“It’s certainly the tastiest way to exorcise my demons,” you jest, hoping he doesn’t ask too many questions. It’s far too late to keep up a decent lie.  
“I hear ya. Well, this is it. Not much, but you should be able to find something to work with.” Hank gestures towards a section of shelving just a few feet wide packed to the brim with all sorts of baking items. “I’ll be up front if you need anything else.” He shuffles past you and disappears around the corner of a shelf.  
Slowly your eyes scan the small space for what you need. Flour, baking soda, vanilla extract, and a few other essentials catch your eye. They rest softly against one another in the basket you grabbed from the front of the store, the metal handle pressing into your forearm with the weight of each ingredient. It would be uncomfortable, but you are in a trance as you check items off your mental list and return to the cash register.  
“Find everything you need?” Hank asks as he slides off of his stool and begins ringing you up. “Mmm, chocolate chip cookies. Whoever lands you is one lucky fellow. My wife would burn the house down trying to use the microwave!”  
The two of you share a small chuckle when a mason jar with an older woman’s smiling picture attached to it catches your eye. Scrawled across the top of the photo are the words “Janice’s Chemo Fund”. “Is this her?” you say, pointing to it.  
“Yep, that’s my girl. Breast cancer. She’s fighting like hell, bless her.” The pride in his eyes is enough to make yours water. While his back is turned grabbing another bag for your things you drop a hundred-dollar bill in the jar. You also make a mental note to come back whenever you can. A moment later the bell for the front door rings again, and you half expect to find one of the Fakes here to collect you. Instead you lock eyes with a man who immediately looks away, his jaw twitching and eyes sunken deep in his ashen face, barely visible beneath the hood of his gray sweatshirt. He turns around and starts looking at a display of romance novels on the shelf opposite the cash register.  
Hank finishes bagging your things, you pay for the groceries, and wish him a good night. The man who entered moments ago keeps glancing in your direction while picking up a book for a moment, only to put it down and immediately grab another. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up as you pass by him to leave. Quickly you duck behind an outdoor display and peek through the various plants for sale, watching the young man repeat his motion with the books. He slowly walks to the end of each aisle, looking down them briefly. Hank attempts to engage him in conversation, however the man ignores him and continues looking around. Seemingly satisfied by what he sees he turns to Hank and does exactly what you were afraid of: he pulls a large knife out of his waistband.  
He points the knife directly at Hank and then gestures to the register. Hank is reaching for the drawer when you burst in, pistol drawn and aimed directly at the young man’s head.  
“Put. It. Down,” you growl. He hesitates and you take a few steps forward. Obviously having more bravado than brains, he steps towards you and swings the knife. You easily dodge the sloppy attack and toss your pistol in the air, catching it by the barrel and cracking the handle into the side of the man’s head. He falls to the ground clutching his new concussion, spewing every curse in the book. Walking over to where he writhes on the ground, you shove him on his back and place one foot on his windpipe and apply a bit of pressure. Now holding the gun the correct way, you again point it at his head. He quickly realizes that his only weapon, the knife, was lost somewhere in the struggle and lays his hands on the ground beside his head.  
“P-please don’t kill me,” he whimpers.  
“That depends on the kind of choices you’re about to make. You can either leave this place now and stay the fuck away,” you put just a bit more pressure on his throat and he lets out a wheeze, “or I can take you to my associate’s place of business and take care of you there.”  
“I’ll go! I’ll leave and never come back! Please just let me live!” Tears stream down his face into a mop of greasy brown hair, and every time he speaks you get a glimpse of his rotting teeth. He seems like your run-of-the-mill junkie, a spineless coward who steals from everyone for his next score.  
“I’ll take your word for it.” You remove your foot from his throat but leave the gun trained on him. “Because if you don’t keep it, you’ll be hearing from me and my far more dangerous friends. Tell your lowlife buddies that this place is off limits, and anyone who fucks with it is going to get fucked. Got it?”  
“Got it!” With that, you let him run out the door, stumbling on the curb as he disappears into the darkness.  
Your expression softens as you holster your weapon and turn to face the shopkeeper. “Hank, are you okay?” He nods, and though you know he’s shaken up he doesn’t seem physically harmed. You pull the receipt for the groceries you just bought out of your pocket and scribble a phone number on the back before handing it to him. “If anyone else gives you trouble, call me.” He takes the paper with trembling hands and you leave, grab your things, and go back to the penthouse.  
When you return to the penthouse you head straight for the kitchen and begin taking a walk along the familiar baking path. The same path you traverse every time you wake up screaming, dripping in a cold sweat with a heart that just won’t stop racing no matter how many deep breaths you take. Every movement is automatic, muscle memory guiding you through the measurements and mixing. You sing softly to the dough as the chocolate chips fold into the gooey mass. Once they are completely combined you turn to grab a cookie sheet and nearly jump out of your skin when you see Ryan standing in the doorway, watching you with a sleepy smile on his face.  
“Jesus fuck man, you scared the shit out of me!” you exclaim, resting a slightly floured hand over your racing heart. You are also surprised to see him outside of business hours. His sandy blonde hair falls loosely just past his shoulders, and he wears a plain black t-shirt and blue plaid pajama pants. He looks so…soft. Nothing like the cold killer that busted you out of an alleyway shootout just hours before.  
Ryan chuckles lightly and moves further into the kitchen, surveying the mess you’ve made. “My bad. Didn’t mean to interrupt your five-a.m. sugar fix.” He reaches for the bowl and you smack his hand with a spatula.  
“Hands off the merchandise, Monster Mash. I need all of this dough to feed the army that lives here.” You line the cookie sheet with parchment paper and begin shaping the dough into cookie-sized balls.  
“Need a hand?” Ryan asks. “I promise I won’t eat any until they come out of the oven. Probably.” He gives a cheeky smile and reaches again for the bowl of dough.  
You let out an overdramatic sigh and let him hook his fingers into the soft mixture. “Fine, but I’m watching you. And put your hair up, I don’t want anyone finding hair in my cookies.”  
“Yes, ma’am,” he says as he washes his hands and twists his locks into a bun on the top of his head. “Sous chef Ryan, at your service!”  
“Oh no, you are a Junior Chef in Training, if that,” you laugh as his face falls in mock disappointment.  
The two of you spend some time putting dough on cookie sheets in silence, which allows you to fall back into your rhythm. Ryan, who up until this point has been comfortable sitting in silence whenever you’re around, decides to break it.  
“So, why exactly are you in the kitchen at almost five in the morning? I’m never one to turn down a cookie, but this isn’t exactly the time for a midnight snack.” He glances at you from his position to your left, stretching parchment paper over another cookie sheet.  
It takes you a moment to answer. What should you say? Can you trust him enough to talk about your nightmares? Everyone in this business has some tragic past or another. He would understand if you kept your answers vague. You also consider that this may be a fishing tactic. Is he genuinely concerned for you, or is he just looking for more information to keep in case he needs it? You take a deep breath and make your choice.  
“I have nightmares. When I can’t sleep, I bake. I learned how to make pecan pie at three in the morning a while back.” You bite your lip, hoping that satisfies him.  
“Maybe I should do that, too. It would definitely be more constructive than wandering the penthouse or staring at my ceiling,” he shrugs.  
“But then who would stalk the halls and scare the shit out of guests?” you tease.  
“Ah, the pressures of being a creepy motherfucker,” Ryan says, staring wistfully at the wall across from the two of you, “I never have any time to enjoy the simple things in life.”  
The two of you share a good laugh and you elbow him in the side. Another few moments pass in silence while balls of cookie dough line up neatly on the cookie sheets. Dough sticks to your fingers as you shape the delicious treats. Ryan starts the conversation again, but now there is a certain softness in his tone.  
“So, nightmares,” he begins, “did you want to talk about it?”  
“Not particularly,” you sigh. “Did you want to talk about your trust issues?”  
Ryan bristles, and you kick yourself for the harsh reply. You have been trying to gain his trust and get around his walls like the rest of the team, but when the opportunity finally presents itself you shove your foot into your mouth.  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” You say softly. “The memories are just painful, and I spend a lot of time remembering when I don’t want to that I avoid it in the daylight.”  
You rest your dough-covered hands on the counter, gripping the edge so hard your knuckles turn white. If you bit any harder on the inside of your cheek, it would bleed. Ryan turns to you, but you don’t look at him. Out of the corner of your eye you can see his expression. Eyebrows knotted together, his mouth turned down and eyes as calm as the lake your mother took you to once as a child. His arms hang loosely at his sides, and for a moment you swear he starts to lift them towards you before dropping them back down. He turns back to the dough and grabs a rough handful, shaping it forcefully.  
“I get it,” he replies. “My last crew—" Ryan stops himself and seems to chew over the thought with a chunk of cookie dough. “My last crew left me bleeding in an alley. That’s why I have trust issues.”  
Something snaps inside your mind, and every rational thought and careful impulse you had before crumbles. This was the most real Ryan has ever been with you, the most vulnerable emotion conveyed in a couple of sentences. You want to reciprocate his vulnerability, and not because you feel you have to. Tears well in your eyes for a moment but you blink them back.  
“My dad hit my mom. A lot.” Though you want to share more, you hold back. Images of your mother’s kind face plastered in bruises flash through your mind. You flinch as if you’ve been hit, even though your father never raised a hand to you. No one else knows this, and no one else can. Something tells you Ryan will take this to the grave.  
“So that’s why you volunteer.” A sad smile spreads across his face when he looks at you. “Because you’ve been there.”  
“Yeah.” You stare at your shoes. “Those kids deserve so much more, but I can at least give them a few hours of fun in a church basement.”  
“That’s not creepy at all,” Ryan laughs and you join him, breaking the tension and your staring contest with the floor. “We should probably get these in the oven.”  
You wash your hands and grab a couple of sheets full of cookies and put them in the oven, setting a timer and turning to face the baking mess you have created. A groan emanates from your throat and Ryan follows your gaze to the dirty dishes and empty ingredient packages scattered across the countertops. His eyes land on the open bag of flour in the middle of the island and he shoves his entire hand inside.  
“What are you—” Before you can react, a cloud of flour arcs through the air in your direction, coating you in a light dusting of white. “You son of a bitch, I’m gonna get you for that!”  
He lets out a giggle and jogs around the kitchen, and while you prepare your dusty weapon you think about how odd a childish giggle sounds from one of the most notorious killers in Los Santos. The next several minutes are spent in an all-out war, with both of you taking turns chasing each other around the kitchen covered in flour. At some point, Ryan gained two white handprints on his chest. You have a smear of white powder across your cheek down to your neck. On Ryan’s turn, he runs after you and grabs you around the waist, lifting you into the air while you squeal and squirm. Your flour wrestling is interrupted by the beeping of the oven timer.  
Ryan is the first one to the black oven mitts, and switches out that batch of cookies for another. He turns to you with a tired spark in his eyes, and the dark circles underlining them are no match for the unbridled joy at your previous flour fight.  
As much as you want to continue living in this dusty land of child-like play, the sudden realization washes over you that it’s nearly 6am and the rest of the penthouse should be waking up in a couple of hours. Your shoulders drop slightly as you turn to the now flour-covered kitchen. Ryan’s face falls slightly as he sighs and tosses you a wet cloth.  
“I’ll grab the broom if you start on the counters,” he says, turning towards a tall cupboard near the kitchen’s entrance.  
It takes about an hour and a half to clear every surface of flour and small chunks of cookie dough. Once it’s done you and Ryan sit heavily on one of the benches lining the dining table, resting your elbows on the table behind you and looking on the clock. 7:45. The cookies are arranged neatly on a couple of serving platters on the table, framed by a couple jugs of milk and several glasses awaiting the crew’s arrival. Ryan says that most of them are awake by eight, and that the rest will trickle in later.  
Sure enough, at almost eight-a.m. exactly Geoff stalks into the kitchen and walks directly to the coffee pot, which you had started shortly before. He doesn’t even notice the cookies or your presence until he turns around with a mug of steaming coffee in one hand.  
“Oh shit, cookies.” He mutters as he makes his way to the table. Jack enters just as Geoff sits down, and echoes his sentiment in a much more awake tone. Over the next hour, the rest of the crew makes their way into the kitchen and settles in for coffee, cookies, and morning chatter. It is the first time in too long that you’ve been in a house with so much noise. You sit back and take it all in with a soft smile on your lips. Ryan grins at you around a mouthful of cookie, and you smile back.


End file.
